


child bride with bloody eyes got satan on the brain

by meios



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Body Horror, Candy, Drugs, Fucked Up, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coke tastes like candy when he swallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	child bride with bloody eyes got satan on the brain

**Author's Note:**

> prompted on twitter by [ohmcgee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/) with [this.](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Co_Q-yXVUAIWtGC.jpg/)

The coke tastes like candy when he swallows, rubs at his nose and licks off the dust. It’s sweet in the way drugs never really were supposed to be, according to DARE and his President, but it’s the shot that beats through him like a lollipop playing music on his ribs. His hands steady, his thoughts less of a storm and more of a drizzle, and Jason lets himself drift away in the scene.

 

It’s watercolor, this party: all string lights and strobes, heated bodies too close together and the steam rising from them smudge and fade the lines dividing each of them. He doesn’t know much about the music, doesn’t take much notice to being led out, his heartbeat in his ears, matching the bass, and his smile is infectious, he thinks, contagious if the other man’s is anything to judge.

 

Jason doesn’t know his name, doesn’t care as he licks the breath out of his mouth. The man sucks his dick like it belongs to Jesus Christ and Jason grinds out a name that isn’t his. Tiles crack from how hard he slams his head into them.

 

He leaves a mark on the man’s neck in return, like a calling card from the boy who doesn’t care tonight.

 

*******

 

As a kid, he often wondered if he could taste the clouds if he went up high enough. Thought that the sunset clouds would taste like strawberries; the sunrise ones like oranges. Convinced himself once, while he was high and next to Roy, that the clouds from his cigarettes would taste like lychee, swallowed one and laughed, let Roy put the cigarette out on his tongue.

 

*******

 

He’s vaguely aware of the pain.

 

His body is flying through plywood walls, slams into brick that all at once knocks him breathless and not at all. He’s bitten his tongue through, and when he swears it comes out thick. He spits red onto the ground, splattered like a crime scene, and shoots—he hears the bullet ricochet, but it’s enough to find the distance, the echo and the breath. His feet fall heavy, broken wood like his wrist crunching like leaves; Jason holds his breath and shoots again.

 

A body, not his, crumbles to the floor.

 

He spits candy apple from his mouth.

 

*******

 

There’s a man like a bat with his hands on his shoulders, dead inside and out and twisted around Jason’s little finger, holding himself up as Jason falls apart, and they fall like the Parthenon did, a memory like a siege, and Jason can only try desperately to pull himself up for a breath. And he knows he’s drowning—this is the first time he’s been sober in three months, and it’s not so much a hallucination as it is every teenage fantasy of his come to life.

 

They don’t talk. He and Bruce are long past talking; they’ve been past that since Jason came back. And Bruce can take him apart with the cowl off, all shadows and hard lines like coke, and when Jason swallows him down later, on his knees like a good boy— _good boy_ and he’s whimpering and Bruce’s bare fingers curl in his hair and this is less of a game and more of a prayer, and that’s all Bruce is saying anymore, like it’s not a speech, not a name, but a mantra.

 

He fucks his mouth, and Jason forgets his own name.

 

*******

 

 _Come home_ is all that Bruce says. It almost sounds like the wind instead, like a cry from the heavens meets a clap of thunder meets hail.

 

*******

 

Jason almost doesn’t, if he’s honest.

 

Home is less of a place and more of a time to him, now. He swallows a pill like a cock like a line like a bullet, and he can sleep anywhere now. Next to Roy and Kori tends to be the norm, though he’s woken in cars he doesn’t own and on couches he’s never met before, and he doesn’t worry much as he buttons his pants back up and slips out like a ghost.

 

*******

 

It’s when one of the passwords is his favorite candy that he starts to understand the lump in his throat, the burn like alcohol that’s always there now. The Cave still recognizes his handprint, his eye.

 

Bruce isn’t in the suit when Jason finds him. He’s Bruce and Jason is Jason and they meet each other again like a murder. Hands and fingernails and too much teeth, bitten mouths: there’s no fight for dominance, no unspoken rules, just need. Want and need and Jason will always be that one failure, that one broken piece to the fucked up puzzle, but when Jason works up a mark on his throat, Bruce whimpers, a shattered man.

 

“Can’t be that excited, can you, old man?” he murmurs.

 

Bruce answers by crowding him into his desk, licking out the taste of artificial flavors and tobacco from his mouth. They fit too jaggedly, all movements and no finesse, untrained, wild as if they’ve become one. Jason loops his legs around Bruce, carves lines into the back of his head as sin moves to his jaw, his neck, leaving bruises in its wake.

 

His clothes fall from him: holsters, jacket, shirt first. Bruce doesn’t trace his scars, new and risen, keloids—neither with his tongue nor his fingers does he pay them any mind, mouthing, _we have time_ like it’s easy against warming flesh.

 

“Just fuck me,” Jason groans.

 

Bruce kisses the sharp angles of his hips, pulls both combat boots off in a fluid motion.

 

When Jason is naked it’s like he’s being reborn. The older man holds onto him like he’s something not to be lost again, a newborn with gooseflesh instead of human. He is not fragile, no, he’s _important_ , and Bruce worships him with callouses and a candy-slick tongue. He is eaten and he allows himself to be, cannibalized in the most feral manner, unabashed in his noises as they reverberate around the cave.

 

He is the dead and he has awakened.

 

Bruce pushes into him and they are whole. They fuck until their bodies stutter and freeze, the cold floor of the cave more appealing than anything else. Jason licks at the salt like a body shot, bites Bruce’s red, red mouth until it opens, pliant and molded underneath his whims.

 

*******

 

Bruce breathes him in like smoke and exhales him like air.

 

He puts the cigarette out on his tongue, sucks it down like candy.


End file.
